


A Fiend in Need

by Isis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bestiality, Chocolate Box Treat, Discovering a taste for bottoming, M/M, Monsters, Not actually as dark as it might appear from the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:39:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9641096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: "Well, I'll be fucked," Geralt muttered, with an ironic bark of laughter at the aptness of the phrase that had sprung to mind.  "Guess your antlers aren't the only place you're horny."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> Set in Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt, where there is a fiend indeed on the northern slope of Bald Mountain.

After dispatching the bandits that had camped near the shore where he'd landed his small boat, Geralt began hiking inland along the north shoulder of Bald Mountain. For a moment he wished he'd kept one alive long enough to ask after the Place of Power he was seeking, but they'd attacked him as soon as they'd seen him – to their brief, but painful, regret – and really, it was unlikely scum like that would have had anything useful to tell him.

The information he'd overheard that had sent him here in the first place was itself only marginally useful. Soldiers talking about an uncanny spot in the southern reaches of Velen high up on Bald Mountain's rocky slopes, well, could be anything. But if it _was_ a Place of Power, that would be good. He would use any advantage he could get. 

Deer bounded across Geralt's path, heading for the forest, as he wound his way across grassy benches interspersed with boulders and short cliffs. Above him the rocks were too steep to climb, but according to his map, there should be a gully a bit farther to the east which would afford access to the mountain's summit, if he needed to ascend. 

Below him, more deer scattered into the trees, and he stopped, frowning. Something scaring them? 

The fiend emerged from behind a granite ridge, and there was his answer. Smart deer. Nobody got in a fiend's way if he had the choice. Geralt would have preferred not to as well, but he was between a rock and a hard place – well, a rock cliff rising to his right, and another rock cliff falling away to his left – and the cover of the trees was too far below. Perhaps if he backed away slowly, and chose another route?

But it was too late; the fiend had spotted him. The antlered head lowered, ready to charge.

Fine. He'd never faced one before, but if he never fought monsters new to him, he wouldn't be much of a witcher. No time to oil his silver sword, but it was newly-sharpened, and the light armor he wore had been repaired recently. He made the sign for Quen, then drew his sword as the shield energy crackled around him.

Good thing he'd shielded, as the huge, sharp horns slid past him. Geralt chopped down with his blade on the beast's side, but that fiend-hide was as good as Quen, and his sword glanced off at an angle. The fiend roared again and turned to face him, at close quarters this time. Its third eye blazed in the center of its forehead. 

Of a sudden everything went dark, save that one glowing eye.

A blow from the darkness caught Geralt on the side of the head. Then even that glow vanished, as he toppled into unconsciousness.

Geralt woke in a dank and muddy cave, illuminated only by mossglow and a shaft of faint light that filtered through the tree roots that dangled overhead. His head felt as though he'd been drinking far too much Kaedweni stout, and the rest of his body ached as though he'd been thrown out of the tavern afterward. Not exactly an unusual consequence of his line of work. He extended an arm cautiously, and felt the cool air on his back.

 _That_ was unusual.

His swords were no longer on him, and his gambeson had been slashed down the back. Now he could feel the long cut along his backbone – the blood had already scabbed over – where the dagger's point had scraped a shallow line through his skin.

Not dagger. He remembered, now. Claw.

As he shifted in place he realized that his padded leather trousers had been slit, too. The fiend must have swiped one massive paw down his back, shredding his armor like it was nothing more than silken cloth. A casual blow, luckily, for if there'd been any more force to it, Geralt knew, his flesh would have parted as easily as the armor.

He extended his senses. The cave was narrow and low-ceilinged, more dirt than rock, and it stank like a cesspit in a graveyard. He could hear the faint skittering of small insects and rats, and the slow, heavy breathing of a larger beast behind him. His gear lay in a pile against the wall of the cave, no more than four paces away. 

Geralt didn't have to turn to know that the harsh breaths and fetid stench behind him were that of the fiend. He tried to remember what he'd read of fiends. Little was known of them. Relicts, they were, and secretive – and dangerous. 

He tensed, preparing to sprint toward his weapons, when a heavy paw landed between his shoulder blades and pushed him down to the cave floor. Thankfully the monster used the heel of its paw, not its claws. And clearly it had held back the full force of its massive muscles, or Geralt would have been squashed into the mud like a bug under a nobleman's boot.

Some authorities speculated that fiends had greater intelligence than the ungulates they resembled, for their use of the hypnotic power generated by the third eye, they argued, must be driven by a thinking mind. Others asserted that fiends were only beasts, their magic ability mere instinct, like the slash of a wyvern's venomous tail. Based on the behavior of this fiend, Geralt was inclined to the former view, for an unthinking monster would have killed him already. Unless it was saving him to eat for later...but he didn't think they ate humans. Which still left the question unanswered: why had this one dragged him to his lair?

The great paw lifted from his back. Geralt felt the heat of the fiend's furry hide as it bent over him, the blast of foul breath over his shoulder. Then...he felt something else. Something large and hot and insistent, pressing against his bare arse. "Well, I'll be fucked," he muttered, with an ironic bark of laughter at the aptness of the phrase that had sprung to mind. "Guess your antlers aren't the only place you're horny."

No response from the fiend other than renewed pressure against his body. Not good, he thought. If its prick was proportional to the rest of its brawny bulk, he was going to be bludgeoned to a bloody pulp before the fiend attained any satisfaction. He cast a regretful glance toward his gear. "Damn, and I've even got oil," he said aloud. "Too bad it's so far away."

To his surprise, the beast huffed audibly, and the pressure eased. _Was_ the fiend intelligent? "Do you understand me?"

No response. The beast's heavy prick nudged at his arse. 

He tried again. "Oil would make it easier. Better than blood."

The fiend pulled back a fraction and made another noise. A massive paw pushed against Geralt's shoulder, just a little, though he could feel the pressure of those claws held in readiness. Permission, and a warning.

"I get it. Oil. No sword." The fiend might not understand his words, but he suspected it was sensing something of his thoughts, maybe his emotions. Made sense, considering the way its powers worked on the mind. But he'd have to be careful. _Don't even think of the sword._ A warning growl behind him indicated he'd schooled his thoughts just in time. 

Slowly, his senses straining behind him for any hint of the monster's approach, Geralt crawled to the pack containing his potions, oils, and foodstuffs, which lay on top of his weapons. At least the vials were on top, undamaged. Grimly he reached for the relict oil, which lay conveniently near the top, though mere contact with the fiend's body wouldn't do anything, not without a wound to enter the bloodstream. Several bottles of Erveluce were within reach as well, and he grabbed one just as he felt claws hook around his thigh, tearing yet another hole in his trousers as the fiend dragged him back away from the pile.

Another growl. Geralt turned to see the antlered head hanging over him, the central eye fixed on him. A sight out of nightmares, and he'd seen some ugly creatures in his travels. He curled his fingers around the bottle and shook his head. "Only gave me time to get one, and I need it more than you." He pulled the cork with his teeth, tilted it into his mouth, and let the gentle, sweet burn of the alcohol course through him.

He'd nearly finished the bottle when it was knocked out of his hand. "Impatient bastard," he grumbled. The Erveluce was already starting to hit him, give things fuzzy edges. Things like the enormous prick jutting from between the fiend's thick hind legs, aimed right at him. _Not like I haven't oiled large weapons before_. He anointed it with a generous measure from the vial in his other hand, and had just time to pour another dollop into his own hand, intending to get the thing good and slick, before the fiend swiped him across the shoulders and pushed him face down into the mud.

He managed to run his oil-covered hand down his exposed crack before the fiend fell upon him. It may have had some intelligence, but it had absolutely no finesse; it thrust its cock at Geralt's arse like a battering ram until the slippery blunt head found purchase, and then with much huffing and grunting worked it as deeply as it could.

Geralt spread his legs as much as his torn trousers and the heavy weight of the monster would let him. He'd always considered himself a pragmatic man; the sooner the fiend achieved its objective, the sooner he would be able to escape. _Or be killed. Better not think about that._

And although he'd rather face a noonwraith at midday with nought but a rusty nail in his sword hand than admit it, now that the fiend had found the right place and was enthusiastically ploughing him, the sensation was rather...stimulating. It wasn't the first time he'd had something up his backside, of course. One of Crippled Kate's whores did amazing things with a length of carved bone, expertly manipulating it in a rhythm that matched that of her mouth on his shaft...and as the memory came to mind, his prick, already half-hard, stiffened beneath him. Not that the squelching mud was anything as lovely as the girl's warm mouth had been, but it was soft around him, cushioning the cave's floor and inviting him to rut himself against that surface as the beast relentlessly fucked his arse.

Geralt pushed against the muddy cave floor, once, twice, three times. Then the fiend's rhythm shifted. One taloned paw pulled at his hip, destroying what was left of the cloth and leather and scoring a stinging line across his skin. Cool air hit his skin as Geralt was lifted into a kneeling position. "Just as I was starting to enjoy myself," he gasped. "You're doing this on purpose, you –" a firm thrust turned the next word into a groan, and then he found his voice again – " _bastard_!" 

The fiend either did not hear him, or did not care. Its harsh grunts were coming faster, now, and Geralt found himself unable to do anything but strain against the huge paw that held him in place, feeling the claws digging into his flesh – he'd have new scars, if he lived through this – and the hard pounding between his thighs, the building need for release. His prick wanted nothing more than to bury itself in something – anything – instead of waving around like a sodding flag. Then the fiend squeezed his hip even more tightly, bellowed like a whole herd of dying cattle, thrust once more, and collapsed on top of Geralt, driving him back down into the sweet, sweet mud, and Geralt's whole body shuddered as he came. 

It took less than half a minute before the blessed relief of orgasm gave way to the acute discomfort of having a large, heavy creature on top of him. On the one hand, if the fiend fell asleep, there was less of a chance it would choose to dismember him as a post-coital exercise. On the other hand, if the fiend fell asleep, there was no way Geralt would be able to wriggle out from beneath its massive bulk. 

The fiend grunted once and rolled off him. Geralt pulled himself up to a sitting position, wincing at the pain; he didn't think any bones were broken, but his muscles were a solid mass of bruises, his skin was scored with dozens of from the fiend's claws, and his arse, well. Wouldn't be sitting Roach any time soon. He supposed that an ordinary man, without the mutations that gave witchers their outsized strength and endurance, would have been mauled to death. Of course an ordinary man wouldn't have been here in the first place.

The question remained, though: would he be able to leave the fiend's lair? He turned his head and found himself staring straight into that gleaming third eye.

"You're welcome," said Geralt. "Now if you don't mind, I'll be on my way."

He was conscious of the fiend's gaze as he clambered unsteadily to his feet. The ruins of his gambeson and trousers flapped uselessly around him; he pulled them off and dropped them on the muddy floor of the cave. _Something to remember me by._ He crossed the short distance to his things and hefted his pack on one shoulder, his swords on the other. There was a second set of light armor in there, but he was damned if he'd put it on until he'd washed the mud and blood and other less savory fluids from his body. Doubtless there was a stream nearby.

The fiend showed no signs of coming after him, which was a relief, but Geralt didn't relax until he was outside the cave. He looked back, paused a moment. One of his bombs, tossed into that small space, might be enough.

Then again, it might not be, and he didn't relish trying to fight the fiend bare-arsed and still aching. And besides, whether or not he found the Place of Power, he'd likely be coming back this way in a few days. By then he'd be fully recovered. 

And this time, he'd take off his armor and oil his arse _before_ he arrived.


End file.
